THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22399, 21 April 1936, Page 17

THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS

By JOHN HUNTER (COPYRIGHT) Author of "When the Gunmen Came," "Buccaneer's Gold," "Dead Man's Gate," etc.

AN EXCITING STORY, PACKED WITH THRILLS AND MYSTERY

SYNOPSIS One evening, when London is enveloped in fog, a man named Mahoney, who has been drinking steadily for some hours, makes his way to the Pimlico office of a cripple, Percival Brendon, over whom ho has a hold. Brendon is just coming out, and they walk a little distanco together— Mahoney, meanwhile, uttering threats. When near the river, Brendon suddenly stabs Mahoney, tips the body into the river, and throws the knife after it; but the knife drops on to the deck of a barge. About the same time, Lillian Hartway, who has just returned from France, is alone in the compartment of a London-bound train when a young man opens the door and entere. After begging her not to pull the communication cord, ho tells her that his name is .TefTery Sanders and that ho has just crossed from France in a small boat. Ho is penniless, and she lends him money and gives him her address so that he can return it when he is able to do so. She does not notice the look of horror in his eyes wh?n he reads the address, nor his peculiar expression when, inadvertently, he catches sight, in her bag, of a visiting card bearing the nnme and the Pimlico address of Percival Brendon. They part at the station, nnd Lillian makes her way to the house of Paul B'arclay, whose name and address so agitated JcfTery. Paul is seated in the dining room. (Now read on) CHAPTER TIT —(Continued) The electric lighting which had heen installed all over the house when Barclay bought it derelict, had heen cleverly and reverently conceived so that it struck no false note in such an atmosphere of dignified age. Now it beat down on silver and napery, on the broad stretch of the oval, polished table, on the decanter at Barclay's hand, the fine crystal glass of the bowl holding the nuts at his elbow. He lifted his glass ,-\nd reflectively eyed the rich port within it; then sipped and put the glass down. Before him a man stood. Though there was a certain attitude of respect in the man's stance, there was also a suggestion of familiarity. Barclay leaned back in the tall carver in which he was seated. He was a lean man, a little over average height, with short-cut white hair, most carefully groomed, a strong face, clean-shaven, and piercing dark eyes. His hair had probably been jet black when he was young. He gently rubbed a pair of slender hands together. " Look here, Kimber," he said, " you're talking to me in riddles. There's no need for it—between you and me. Forget for the moment that you're the butler and I'm the master, and be frank —if ever you've been able to be frank with anybody." " I'm not a liar," said Kimber sullenly, and a hot flush crept to his cheeks while his eyes darkened. He was a swart, short fellow, small in every way, compact, and active. " My dear Kimber, all men are liars. Forgive me for repeating a very timeworn tag for your benefit. Besides . . . you'd lie and lie about a certain night two years ago, a night of June I believe, the poets would call it. So why lie now and why trouble to deny that you're lying?" Under the easy scorn in the rich and deep voice of Barclay, Kimber writhed a little. " I'm frightened," he said, at last. " Ah! That's better. Now we understand. Why come to me, then, and say you've got a chance of a good job abroad? Why not say, right out, that you're scared and want tc-bolt?" " Well ... I thought . . Kimber fidgeted with his hands and was silerit. " Don't think. It takes too much out of you, my friend. I'll do the thinking in this house. And why do you want to bolt?" "Turquin." Kimber uttered the name shortly. Barclay reached toward a silver box and selected a flat gold-tipped Turkish cigarette with care, as though each cigarette in the box was different from its fellows. Kember stepped forward and lit it for him. The action was automatic. It was also significant of their relationship. " I'm not afraid of Turquin," said Barclay calmly. " Not a bit afraid of him. Why should I be? It is Turquin who has to be afraid of me, and, if you stick to me, of you." " I was talking to Mrs. Allard," began Kimber. " And she said she thought I was right. And she also said . . . ." Barclay's clenched fist dropped heavily to the table top, so that the things on it rattled noisily. "To blazes with Mrs. Allard," he snarled. " What right has she to discuss what should and should not be done? Who is she to approve or disapprove of your actions or thoughts ? remain the master. Understand?" I'm the master here, Kimber, and 1 " Well, yes, boss, but . . •" " I want Mrs. Allard." Barclay spoke curtly. Kimber stepped across the room and touched a bell. In a minute or two, during which Barclay smoked with something like angry haste, and Kimber stood and watched him and said nothing, a woman came into the room. She was between 45 and 50 and still very pretty; but there was something in her face which robbed that prettiness of charm, a definite, repellent hardness, a cold and aloof calculation, which was chilling to the blood. Her stiff, black, silken frock rustled as she moved. The only relief about it was a hint of austere white at the collar and cuffs. It was fastened throat high. "You want me?" she asked. The door was closed and nobody could hear from outside what was being said. " Very certainly I do," replied Barclay, but now without any show* of heat. " You and Kimber, I understand, have been discussing affairs. I don't mind that. It's natural. But what 1 do object to is your discussing—with the great possibility of executing—flight. I said flight. Running away." He paused and added bitingly: "Ratting, if you prefer a colloquialism. I have one wa.y with rats, Mrs. Jane Allard. The way of all men with them. I stamp them out ..." The woman's brilliant, diamond-hard eyes flashed momentarily toward Kimber, then mot Barclay's once more. We were talking about Smith," she said. " Oh!" Barclay's brows lifted mockingly. "It's Smith now, is it? It was Turquin when Kimber explained. Well. What of Smith?" Again the woman looked at Kimber. Ho seemed about to_ speak. A gesture from Barclay silenced him. Mrs. Allard found her voice. She sounded the slightest bit desperate. It's a dangerous game, Barclay. Dangerous. Don't pretend you don't believe in Smith. We know he exists. I've got straight information that he's after Turquin. I've got it straight. And that means that if ho gets Turquin he might get us. I tell you I'm scared. I admit it. I've done a few things in my life, but I'm not running head first into a man with the reputation of Smith." " Imputation," said Barclay, "is the very word, Mrs. Allard. And, by the way, 1 am Mr. Barclay. Please . . . Whatever heat this discussion may engender, I remain Mr. Barclay. But this Smith person. I agree with you entirely that Smith is a reputation. That —and nothing more. Examine it how you will. Has anybody ever seen Smith? Has anybody ever taken his hand,

talked with him, travelled with him? 1 Scotland Y.ird decides to bo melo--3 dramatic. It decides to write a fairy . fctory with a great big ogro in it. So 1 it creates —Smith. A somebody no liv--3 ing person has ever seen, so far as wo ' know, a somebody who, in various i criminal cases, has supplied certain evis denco—-according to the policemen who I bave given that evidence from tho wit- ' ness-box; all verified, supported, accur- ! ately checked up and undeniable, T ' admit. But Smith himself has never t made a deposition in any Court. Smith is the bogey man. The so clover people at Scotland Yard let it slip out that ; Smith is after a certain criminal. The ; criminal gets scared. A super-being is 1 on his trail, a creature so mysterious that ho cannot bo placed or identified. Scared men make mistakes. And Scotland Yard steps in and—Smith has scored another triumph. Magnificent, ! Mrs. Allard. Like the Russian troops who poured through England in 1914 a story to destroy tho morale of tho enemy; but a story only. It won't do--1 stroy my morale, and I'll see that it doesn't destroy yours, my good lady." Barclay leaned forward. "There is no more a man named Smith in the employ of Scotland Yard than there were battalions of Russian infantrymen 011 the south-bound trains from the north in 1911. It's a scare. It's devised to frighten people like you. But it doesn't frighten people like me. Now, anything else to say? Kimber's lips moved. Barclay wheeled on him with tigerish speed. " Don't mention Turquin any more. Turquin keeps you and he keeps me and he keeps our friend. Jane Allard, here. And don't link up Turquiu with Smith and make a spectre for your own terrifying, because I won't have it. Turquin's mine. I hold him like that—" One of the long slender hands clenched slowly, tightly. " And Smith is a figment of the imagination. It's tho first time those policemen in plain clothes at headquarters have ever shown any; and it's a rotten effort, at that, an effort to make clever men laugh. So — what else?" " If you're sure—" ventured Mrs. Allard uncertainly. " Of course I'm sure." Barclay relaxed. He smiled. " Well that's over. It was foolish wasn't it? Now how about a glass of wine? Glasses, Kimber." , Kimber brought forward two glasses and Barclay carefully poured into them some of the priceless port. He handed one to Mrs. Allard, and Kimber took the other one. Barclay stood up. " To ourselves," he said, lifting his glass. " And away with all disruptions." They drank with him. They were certainly easier in their minds. It showed in their eyes. They were smiling. As thef put their emptied glasses down there was a timid tap on the door, and in response to Barclay's sharp call a girl showed herself. " Well, Betty?" asked Barclay. " A Miss Lillian Hartwav has called sir. She . . "W : hat!" Barclay half got to his feet, then, steadying himself, sat down. To Mrs. Allard and Kimber he said quietly: " You can go." He raised his voice slightly. " Show her in, Betty." So Lillian came to the presence of Paul Barclay. * * v ** «► She stood just inside the now closed door and looked down the long room at Barclay. Her heartbeats had quickened slightly, and she was aware of a little choking at her throat. She was conscious of a long and piercing scrutiny, and then she heard his voice. " You're changed." Ho smiled. "May I say for the better?" " It's 10 years, uncle. 1 was 12 then. There's a difference between a child of 12 and a young woman of 22." " I suppose so. But come along and sit down and tell me why I'm honoured by this utterly unexpected visit. And how long are you staying? I imagined you tucked away in that lovely old house outside Tours; tucked away for good and in comfort." She reached a chair and*seated herself near him. Her hands fretted a little at the dainty bag on her knees. " I've come home," she said suddenly. His brow wrinkled. " Home. . . ." His eyes lit incomprehensibly. " Do you mean for good?" She nodded, searching his face with something like appeal. He refilled his glass and thoughtfully drank. At last he said: "Tell me." She spoke nervously. " Well, you see . . . Monsieur and Madame Defarge were alwas - s so kind to me. I mean from the time they adopted me after mother died at their house. But things aren't quite so good with them. I don't understand it at all, so I can't explain. Monsieur Defarge has lost a lot of money. So I said I'd go out and earn my own living. I had a little money and I went to Paris. I had a job there, but soon lost it, and was out of work." Lillian paused. " Paris isn't a good place for a girl to be out of work in. I suppose no nig city is. It began to frighten me. 1 found ghosts under the trees of the Champs-Elysees, and the traffic noises on the Grands Boulevards were like a menacing voice ... at tho least. Then I thought of .you." She smiled bravely. I knew I hadn't seen you for ten years. But I thought, well, I hadn't much money left and I couldn't go back to the Defarges. Have I done wrong?" Barclay lit another cigarette. Here was a contretemps of the worst possible description. He stole a glance at her. She was strikingly beautiful, a girl to stir the pulses of all men. It was amazing how the leggy, hoydenish damsel of 12 had developed. But, of course, women did. Anyhow, contemplation of her physical growth was not at all to the point. It was a waste of time to try and see the racketing, laughing child of 12 in tho soft-eyed, delicate woman of 22. What he had to see was what to do with her. There was Turquin . . . there were all his affairs. Ihere were the dark things which moved and had their being behind the splendid facade of his false and evil life. And this girl . . . stepping into the midst of it; a problem added to all his pressing problems, a difficulty he would well have avoided. With quick and sudden rage, ho wondered why she should not have stayed in France; then checked the rage and smiled at her. " Well, my dear, you're hero, aren't yoil ? And I'm glad to see you. I should 'be a very ungrateful person if I resented the presence of so charming a young lady. Like turning aside from a gift of tho gods. Just a minute." He walked to the bell-push, and Mrs. Allard presented herself. She gave the girl a hard stare and then oflerod her attention to Barclay. " Oh, Mrs. Allard. This is my niece. Miss Lillian Hartway. She's arrived rather unexpectedly from France." Mrs. Allard's face was perfectly noncommittal. She listened steadily. " Er . . . the blue room?" " It's as good as any, sir. I'll have Kimber take the young lady's baggage up. It's in the hall." She turned to Lillian. "If you would give me time to get tho room ready, miss. Tho bed linen lias to bo put on. I'll have a fire lighted." Lillian thanked her and she withdrew and told Kimber the startling news. Kimber morosely carried the two suitcases up io the blue room, and Betty was set hurrying about preparing a fire, while Mrs. Allard took the necessary bed furnishings from the big airing cupboard. (To be continued daily)